


Excuse Me?

by faryn_rose



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faryn_rose/pseuds/faryn_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Changkyun does not like his new stylist. At least, that's what he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Excuse Me?

When you see the boy of dark fringes and coffee-hued eyes that seem to have been carved to the liking of moon crescents themselves, you know they don’t need you. He is tall, lithe, utterly handsome, and entirely unneeding of your stylistic services to make him look any better.  

However, with your initial perception of this beautiful image granted with this beautiful man, you do not expect the not-so-beautiful words that leave his mouth. 

“What are  _you_?”

The words are filled with all the maliciousness you can imagine, and his eyes peer intensely at your frame, unforgiving, confused, intolerant. The uncomfortable atmosphere he has created with three words and a glare has his manager fidgeting at his side. 

“This is your new stylist.” 

Dark chocolate eyes cast a side glance at the elder man.

“Where the hell is Noona?”

You nearly flinch at the icy coldness of his tone that draws a simple sigh from his manager.

“She was fired.”

“ _What_?”

You watch as a storm set off, both men now spewing words from their mouths like they were weapons, like  _how could you_  and  _this girl is better qualified_  and _but she was my friend_. It all ends with a dramatic huff from the idol and a glare so cold it almost turns you to stone right there on the spot, before he is leaving the room, feet in a storm.

The elder man turns to you with a forced smile and tired eyes. “Don’t worry. He’ll warm up to you,” he speaks, giving a single pat on your shoulder before he is exiting through the door with a muttered ‘ _eventually’_. 

You let out a breath you don’t know you have been holding, and wonder what in the world you’ve just gotten yourself into. 

When you finally start styling his hair out of necessity, due to the approaching dates of several concerts, you find yourself harboring the same feeling as someone trying to touch a piranha without being eaten alive.

“Don’t touch it like that,” he sharply says at the movement of your fiddling fingers with the strands of his hair. 

“I’m- how am I supposed to touch it?”

His gaze is even and disapproving when he frowns at you through the mirror. “You don’t.”

On other days, he is sure to make it just as clear what he thinks of you being his stylist. When you spray his hair with a bottle of liquid whose misty droplets do not dare come close to touching his face, he begins coughing and sputtering as if he’s been poisoned. 

“What kind of shit chemical is this?”

“It’s water.”

Or whenever you are carefully applying his makeup, but your intense, concentrated gaze on his features always have him squirming in his chair.

“Stop looking at me.”

“I’m doing your makeup. I have to look at-”

“You made the eyeliner crooked.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

And you slowly come to actually doubt your skills, because the boy you use them on is so vehemently critical of you, but eventually you figure that it must have been because he simply misses his noona.

“Look, I know you miss her but-”

“The hair dyes you used on me are the ugliest I’ve ever seen.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

Later, you come to find out that his fans, bandmates, and even the CEO complimented his hair and appearance on stage. But he retains his pout and looks of disapproval each time he returns from a performance, avoiding your gaze and looking very handsome, with the help of your skills, while doing so.

And you soon learn that the only way to stop his verbal attacks was to retort everything he says with something of your own because, somehow, in his eyes, that is respectable. 

“I don’t like this shade.”

“I don’t care.”

He falls silent with a defeated glare fixated on you through the mirror, and does not speak for the rest of the duration of your styling.

You once smacked away his hands that were reaching for the pins you so carefully arranged in his hair.

“Touch that and you’ll be looking like a hobo with very, very uneven curls.”

His palms simply lowered and he did as you instructed, spreading an inkling of victory through your limbs if not for the smallest of smiles that was curling at his lips at that moment. The feeling was quickly replaced with awe, because you realized his smiling face is much, much nicer than his scowling one, and you decided you want more of it. 

When your lead stylist scolds you on something you mess up on, perhaps a messy hair job or mismatching colors in his makeup, and she stomps over to fix his appearance herself, you do not miss the frown that graces his features through the view of the mirror. That is when you know that another stylist change is not something he wants, and that means losing you is not something he wants, either.

Your suspicions are confirmed when comes to visit you in the dressing room you stayed behind late to clean up, sauntering inside with darting eyes and a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“There is an extra sandwich in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

You blink. “Thank you.”

He promptly nods and turns a shade of light pink, lips parting and pursing and parting again in an effort to make words that never reach your ears before he simply murmurs a  _goodnight_  and shuffles out the door. You don’t notice the smile that takes your face captive until long afterwards.

He becomes a little less temperamental during your styling sessions from then on, choosing to swipe through his phone instead of hurling his criticisms at you every now and then. 

When you finally finish with an appreciative gaze running over his appearance, pride filling your voice when you say, “you look good,” he stays silent. His eyes flick to a mirror and, instead of making any of his usual snarky comments, his cheeks tint with a rose blush as he gives a single nod, making sure later to avoid your gaze when he silently leaves the room. 

Of course, he does not remain silent when Minhyuk enters one day in a flourish, skipping over to your booth and releasing a loud whistle from his lips as his eyes sweep over the maknae idol seated in the chair. He places a palm on your shoulder, flashing you a smile that nearly blinds you.

“Hey, you’re such a great stylist. I.M. always looks so good for every performance, the fans are starting to think he’s the visual,” he laughs brightly. “Can you try on me sometime?” 

The aforementioned boy is now on full alert, his gaze no longer fixated on the game on his phone screen, but is instead carefully watching the exchange and burning holes into the place of contact on your shoulder. 

But you are only focused on the dimples of Minhyuk’s smile and his shining eyes and say, “yes, I’m actually finished, I can do your hair and makeup right no–”

“No.”

Both of your eyes flick down to the boy frowning in his chair. 

“What do you mean?” 

His eyes are trained on yours. “You’re not finished.” He shifts his gaze to Minhyuk. “And she’s my stylist, not yours.” 

Minhyuk only snickers, as if he’s been expecting this all along, and leans towards you to whisper, in a voice that is not nearly quiet enough, “he gets protective of noonas he really likes.”

“Shut up!”

But Minhyuk is already walking away with his hands on his stomach, hearty laughs filling the spaces of the room to the brim. When your eyes return to the young rapper fidgeting in his leather seat, he makes no effort to meet your gaze. 

You flip and roll Minhyuk’s words in your mind as if they were ocean waves, wondering if this really meant that this boy actually _likes_  you. But he’d never admit it aloud, you were sure of that, and you only needed the several stretching minutes of strained silence and his furiously blushing cheeks to lean over and kiss his cheek.

The color of red roses blossom across his face as he smacks a hand to the place your lips had burned him. “W-wha, what was for?”

You smile. “For liking me.”

He rubs at his cheek. “Yuck.”

“I like you too.”

He freezes immediately and you laugh, finally knowing full well that styling him would be much, much better from now on. 

 


End file.
